


Keep Going

by turnonmyheels



Series: Keep Going To the End [2]
Category: Lost Girl, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, M/M, Multi, One Night Stands, Rimming, sub!derek, tricking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnonmyheels/pseuds/turnonmyheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/497598/chapters/872161">The Beginning Is the End</a>.  </p><p>Derek tricking his way back to Beacon Hills.  Assumes it has been three years since the fire and they’ve settled in New York City -- Derek is 18.</p><p>You do not need to be familiar with Lost Girl in order to read this fic.</p><p>ETA:  with the new information about Derek's back story, what little incentive I had to finish this vanished.  In other words, there won't be anymore updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Ladycat for tagging with me to get this started. Thank you LDThomps for the beta, any remaining mistakes are my own.

There’s a line to get in the club -- men, women, drag queens and everything in between -- powdered, perfumed, and poured into their shiniest, most expensive clothes. They look like a herd of cows lined up in the corral waiting to be mounted by a bull. Their scent is strong; it fills his head, making him feel like his sinuses are stuffed with cotton. Pheromones, chemicals, emotions, and _products_ layer through his senses, obliterating anything real that may lurk beneath the surface. He walks past them, confident that the bouncer will let him in.

 

He’s never had one turn him down. For that matter, he hasn’t been carded or paid a cover fee in his life. 

 

His New York life that is. His life is a series of befores and afters. Before Kate, after the fire. After the fire, before they ran. Before New York, after the fire. After they ran and before New York was the worst stretch. Long days zig-zagging across the country, trying (and failing) to find a safe place to land to lick their wounds and figure out what happened next. 

 

New York is … New York; there’s not anything else to say that can encompass it. Derek doesn’t think of it as home. That turned to black ash along with the wood that still, somehow, stands. So Laura says. She’s the only one who’s been back. Derek can’t bring himself to see what’s left standing. He certainly can’t stand to visit with the shell of Peter’s body. He doesn’t know how Laura does it, but that’s part of why she’s the alpha and he never will be.

 

At the clubs his body grabs their attention, his eyes draw them in, and his smile is the weapon that reduces everyone around him to a puddle of hormones. It’s pathetic. And useful. He does his best to not let the contempt he feels for the people around him show on his face.

 

The bouncer is one he’s never seen before, nevertheless Derek is through the velvet rope in the time it takes to make eye-contact and smile. 

 

Inside is more of the same. The press of music is a physical thing. For months it hurt his ears until he learned the trick of blocking it out. The bass line is harder to deal with as it rumbles through his chest, making his heart stutter into a different rhythm. Practice helps him ignore it as he surveys the crowd, effortlessly gliding through sweaty, gyrating bodies to the bar.

 

Part of him feels shame. He’s a predator. A wolf. Sheep corralled in a pen are not worthy prey and these are already flying high on alcohol, sex, and god knows what kinds of designer-drugs coursing through their systems, sluggish and ignorant of the jaws he should be snapping around their necks.

 

Derek pushes a snarl into a smile. The brooding, aloof aura can be useful but disdain will never attract the sort of game he’s after. At least, not initially. He signals for a beer and leans his elbows against the bar. It pushes his hips out and displays the wide expanse of his chest beneath the fitted shirt. The beer is cold in his hand, a respite against the heat of the club. It tastes like barley and grain with a mouth full of green hops, cool and filling but ultimately unsatisfying. The gazes of the people around him as he brings the bottle to his mouth is its own satisfaction. 

 

He’s unsure about what he wants tonight, other than hot, tight, and slick. Another bottle of beer is placed at his elbow and the bartender indicates a man and woman at the end of the bar as his patrons. There’s promise there, but there’s something about the woman that he doesn’t like the look of. She meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow and no, that is not the answer. The line of her jaw hardens as he shakes his head in her direction. He focuses on her and he can hear her teeth grind in frustration over the pulse of the club. 

 

She isn’t used to being denied, Derek surmises, and carefully makes sure he isn’t obvious about watching her. The sense of something off about her intensifies with her ire and getting into a fight will only make finding a trick more difficult. Once he’s inside the club, it’s always a trick he’s after. Another body that will ease the pressure inside of him and get him out of his head, albeit briefly.

 

Pressure against his hip jostles him back to attention. The woman has disappeared into the mass of bodies and there’s a young man- boy, really- who is blushing and apologetic as he tries not to spill his drink. Derek moves smoothly as he tucks himself out of reach, the flex of his stomach and hips visible enough that the boy stops stuttering apologies and stares. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, again. His lips are artificially red and plump, glistening when he licks at them. “Can I buy you a drink?”

 

Derek puts his empty down and picks up the beer at his elbow. He shakes his head and gives the kid a smile. Too sweet. Too innocent. Too _soft_. Too little red sparkly lips and the big bad wolf. The kid -- he’s probably not even a kid, could be Derek’s age or older, but in experience he’s a kid -- gives him a rueful smile and fades back into the crowd. There are more, after the boy. A male couple buys him a martini, another hetero couple a beer, one lone woman approaches him drunk, drugged, and wobbly. After that he stops keeping track. He drinks what they buy him for all the affect it has, but no one tempts him.

 

They’re all looking for the same thing he desperately wants and can’t find, someone to take him out of his own head, out of his skin. Both of them. 

 

The DJ shifts from one song into the next, blending the beats and the tempo until it becomes a discordant jumble. Strobes flash in all directions and the lights in the ceiling start spinning. Derek glances around the dance floor one more time; he gives it up as fruitless and heads for the VIP area. The beat drops, the lights flare until the club is flooded with light. Derek closes his eyes and ducks his head until the lights fade down into their regular flash and strobe. 

 

His buddy Rico works as a bouncer in this club and keeps the regular folk away from the VIPs. He’s manning the path to the lounge. They bump fists before Rico lets him pass. “There’s a couple up there, could be the poison you want.” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Thought of you the second I saw them. Just your type.”

 

Derek flashes him a smile while he mentally rolls his eyes; dismissive of the idea of having a type. All of his many acquaintances believe he has a type based on how he looks. They think his type -- tricks, friends, clients, baristas, bartenders -- is a mirror image of himself; they’re wrong. Derek looks in the mirror every day. He knows he’s beautiful, he’s also fully aware of what his exterior hides: that he is broken inside. He is hollowed out, burned out, charred, and barren; chiseled cheekbones and abs do nothing to make him a better person. He learned in the most painful way possible that a beautiful body and face is the best disguise for the most abhorrent monsters imaginable. 

 

He steps inside the lounge and the door closes behind him. The air in here is cooler and fresher, the lighting more subdued, with far fewer strobes and flares. The alcohol is all top shelf and the club pays the dancers well. Well enough that Derek counts two of them among his clients; they acknowledge him with lifted chins when he catches their eyes as he scans the room. The couple from the bar downstairs is in the corner; Rico was wrong, they couldn’t be less his type if they tried. The energy surrounding the woman screams predator and the man has nothing going on behind the eyes. If he’s honest (he always tries to be honest to himself, if no one else), they scare the shit out of him. 

 

Derek fishes his phone out of his back pocket and checks the time; it’s half past midnight. He’s got an incredibly late or early -- depending on how you look at it -- session scheduled with a new client in less than four hours. Not enough time to do anything other than what he’s doing. He makes his way to the bar and leans his back against it, elbows propped on the glossy black surface. 

 

“What’s up, D?” Sylvia always has the weekend shift at this club, it’s the main reason he comes here. She’s a born wolf, native to the city. Her pack had allowed them to settle in their territory with a written treaty and an annual fee. City wolves are surprisingly enterprising.

 

He tilts his head toward the couple. “There’s something wrong there.”

 

“Elmer Fudds?” She hands him a bottled water and he takes it gladly. He cracks the lid and downs the entire bottle in a few pulls and hands the empty bottle back to her.

 

Are they hunters? He doesn’t think so but then again he lost his virginity to a hunter who burned his entire family alive. Obviously, his judgment is shit. “Can’t tell. Could be nothing.” He can feel the heavy weight of her gaze; it feels itchy on the back of his neck. “Doubt it though.”

 

She nods at him and bares her teeth. “I’ll keep an eye out, let mom know.” 

 

That’s good enough for Derek. The Manhattan Alpha takes guarding her territory seriously. Deathly serious. “Think I’ll head out.”

 

“In all of this,” she gestures widely. “There’s not anyone at all that tempts you? Come on D, beautiful people are everywhere.”

 

Derek shrugs. “See ya, Syl.” 

 

The lounge is starting to fill up. It takes Derek a few minutes to wind his way back to the door. He neatly side-steps a girl couple dirty dancing only to bump into a man carrying too many drinks. Derek manages to catch a bottle of beer before it can spill all over him. He brushes off the man’s profuse thanks and is almost out the door when a hand closes around his wrist. 

 

The grip is tight and a flare of white-hot heat rings his wrist. It’s the woman from earlier. He tries to pull his hand away but her grip is too tight. He tries to catch her scent to see what it is he’s dealing with, when a larger hand grabs his other arm grip as tight and nearly as painful as iron soaked in wolfsbane. They press in at him from either side. Derek swallows down his panic. Keeping his voice low and calm he says, “Sylvia, some help here.” 

 

“My, my, look what we have here.” She licks her lips and leans in, pressing her breasts against him. Like the hands on his arms, the touch burns and drains - he can hardly even struggle to pull away now. “Isn’t this one a sight for sore eyes? Pretty wolf boy, good little beta boy.” Her breath is hot and rank against his face. He tries not to breathe it in, but fails; the putrid odor fills his head and makes his knees weak. “Bet we can break him down, string him up, bleed him out a little - then ride him until he drops.”

 

The man yanks him back, an arm around his chest, the other around his waist. He doesn’t know what they are, but their touch is paralytic. He can’t smell anything other than their breath, as if they have some magic that makes them scentless or nulls the area around them. He feels lips and teeth drag against the back of his neck. Her nails pick at the fabric of his shirt when she drags them down his arms. “Such a good, pretty, pretty boy. You’re going to taste so sweet.”

 

He struggles against them, does his best to tune them out, but she won’t stop talking. Her tongue pushes into his mouth. The edges of Derek’s vision starts to gray. Deeply buried memories start pushing to the surface and Derek blacks out.

 

_Time becomes something gossamer and fleeting. His senses narrow to the sound of Kate’s heartbeat strong and steady while his races, nearly thundering out of his chest. She was mostly silent, only giving him the reward of her voice when she came. She was slickhotsoaking on his face, riding his tongue, grinding herself forward to rub herself against his lips, chin, and nose. Her scent mixed with the chlorine from the pool coat his face as she rode his face to orgasm again. She squeezed her thighs around his head, immobilizing him. His world narrowed to the squeeze of her muscles around his tongue, the gush of her flooding his mouth, the sultry chuckle as she ran her fingers through the mess on his belly -- he’d come and hadn’t even realized it._

 

“He’s coming around.”

 

The voice sounds familiar. The ache in his body is as foreign to him as Arabic. He can’t remember feeling this physically bad since he nearly drowned. 

 

“No worries, Laura, you’d do the same for me any day.”

 

If he concentrates, he can hear his sister, his alpha, his life, tinny and distant. The timber of her voice is soft and gentle. Derek may feel like hell, but he knows he’s safe, Laura was beyond fierce when he was in danger.

 

“I don’t know what they were. Supers for sure, some sort of sex creature? I said succubus/incubus and mom just gave me that Alpha look.”

 

It’s Sylvia. He breathes in -- leather and booze. He’s in the office at the club. He opens his eyes a crack to be sure. 

 

“Yeah, I’ll see ya later. Bye.” Thud of a phone as it hits a flat surface. “Open your eyes, D. Laura says you’ve got a client at four.”

 

Derek does as he’s told and sits up. He does have a client -- Bonnie the R.N. -- at four. “Time’s it?”

 

“Three.”

 

Derek scrubs his hands over his face and stands, he’s got plenty of time to get cleaned up before the appointment if he leaves now. “Thanks for the save.”

 

“Whatever they did whammied you good.”

 

His face feels sticky, his mouth puckers at phantom tastes. Whatever they did to him brought the ghost of Kate Argent riding his face back to life. He shudders. He thought he’d managed to block those memories out. He hadn’t woken up from a dream with her taste on his tongue in at least three months. 

 

People could write poetry about it until the end of time, but Derek knew Hell up close and personal. It never leaves you, just when you think you’ve escaped its clutches it reels you back in further down than you had ever fallen before.

 

“Yeah. Thanks again, Sylvia.”

 

If he runs he can get to work in time to wash off the club and try to get his head screwed back on in time for Bonnie. She deserves better than the mess he is right now.

* * *

He makes it in enough time to clean up and change into his uniform with time left over to re-read Bonnie’s file. He remembers her vividly from their consultation. She is old enough to be his mother, with Black Widow red hair and a crooked smile. She works swing shifts as an R.N. at Bellevue. She’s seventy pounds over-weight with a bad back and a bum knee. Her oldest son and his wife are pregnant and Bonnie wants to be able to pick up the bundle of joy when it arrives, even if it kills her to get there. Bonnie’s words, not his. Her bottom lip had trembled a little when she said them, and Derek had reached out and squeezed her hand. He promised he could get her there before the baby came. People like Bonnie? His favorite kind of client. It isn’t about how they looked or what size they wore or how much they could lift. It’s about being able to improve their lives, learn how to take care of their bodies, and most importantly, feel good about themselves. 

 

Derek has a firm rule and the front desk has learned to respect it: he only takes clients that need help and want to work. It’s funny how many of the Black AmEx crowd think that offering to pay more money or ridiculous tips will get him to change his mind. Derek doesn’t work because he needs money, he works because he has nothing else better to do with his time; no way he’ll take on a client that treats him like sex toy.

 

“Derek!” Bonnie says as she walks into the small office all the trainers share. “Thank you again for coming in at this ridiculous hour, I’m sorry about it.” She extends her hand to him and he shakes it.

 

“Bonnie, if you can work graveyard in the ER all night, I can come in before breakfast.” 

 

“I know you hear this all the time, but I’m scared.”

 

Derek opens the door and guides Bonnie towards the elliptical machine. “It’s perfectly normal to be scared when you try something new. Don’t let it stop you.”

 

“I’m not letting anything stop me from getting healthy for my grandchild.”

 

Derek can’t help but smile. He loves her determination as much as he loves the feeling of contentedness he feels in her presence. She tells him funny stories from her shift while she warms up. When her heart rate reaches the target zone Derek guides her to the free weights and leads her through a total body workout. He spots her when she needs it, counts out her reps, and fetches her water when she needs it. At the end of their hour he leads her through a cool down and stretches, then takes her to the massage room.

 

He rubs her down while she tells him the latest gossip about the nurses they both know. Then it’s time for assisted stretching and Bonnie finally goes quiet. When he’s through, he helps her sit up and walks her to the changing room. By the time she comes out back in her street clothes, he’s finished updating her file. 

 

“You were amazing today Bonnie.”

 

Bonnie beams at him. “I’m glad you think so, because I feel like a limp wet noodle. I don’t know if I’ll make it to the subway or not.”

 

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

 

Bonnie pats him on the cheek. “That’s why we all love you Derek, even if you make us hurt.”

 

It’s nothing at all like the familiarity he had with his pack, but Bonnie is so … matronly, all honey, tea, and lemon scents, that he feels like he’s being mothered. He loves it. Laura is the best sister anyone could have, as well as a fair Alpha, but she has zero mothering instincts. “Let me walk you to the station.” Bonnie slips her hand into the crook of his elbow and starts quizzing Derek on his diet. Derek catches a few double-takes and more than a few glares as they make their way out of the gym. Bonnie snickers at one woman who practically walks into the door frame trying to get an eyeful of Derek as they walk out. “You must enjoy that.”

 

Derek pats Bonnie’s hand. “No, I honestly don’t. If it never happened again as long as I lived, I’d be happy.”

 

Bonnie doesn’t answer, merely squeezes his arm a bit more. It’s only a few more steps to the subway station. “Well, this is me. Thank you, Derek, for everything.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Bonnie. Remember to rest tomorrow and-”

 

“Drink plenty of water and do my exercises on my own the day after, I know.” She smiles at him, brown eyes bright and teasing in her face. “Someday, you’ll meet someone whose tongue doesn’t hang out of their mouths and their eyes don’t pop out of their head when they look at you. You’ll know they’re the one.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using wolves from other fandoms rather than creating original characters. You do not need to be familiar with the fandoms/wolves to read this.

It’s been close to three weeks since Derek’s felt like he fit inside his skin. Three weeks, one full moon, two new clients, and one spectacular fight with his sister. Laura isn’t speaking to him now, and that’s fine, because the inside of his head is nothing but a constant, streaming video of his time with Kate. The secret smiles they shared, their first kiss, the first time she called him by his name instead of that fucking nickname. The sex. Every second, every moment running on a constant loop. All dubbed over her mocking laughter as he nearly drowned while the phantosmia of smoke, charred bodies, and chlorine loop incessantly in his head. 

He feels like a bomb waiting to blow.

Derek knows if he can’t find a way to get out of this fucked up head-space he’s going to lose control. If he loses control… the _best_ outcome would be nulling the contract that allows them to live in the city and his sister never forgiving him. The worst outcome ends in a bloodbath when Derek inevitably snaps and disembowels someone.

So he widens his parameters from the usual club. He keeps refreshing his account at swinglifestyle.com. The grndr app is constantly open on his phone. He even visits that bathhouse in Hell’s Kitchen that smells like a couple hundred years of stale come, but he can’t find anyone to scratch the itch, much less get Derek out of his head and free him to escape from himself. 

Another week goes by and with it another full moon. Derek is on constant edge, teetering toward the brink of giving in to his instincts to run and howl and bay. He longs to tear into flesh with his teeth and claws. The life of the city pulses around him, throbbing in counterpoint to the beating in his chest teasing and tormenting, daring him to let the wolf out and see exactly how much damage he can do.

Derek could out the entire supernatural community if he doesn’t get himself under control. The repercussions of that would be… something that he can’t even begin to fathom.

It leaves him with two choices. Go insane or call and ask for help. He lets another week go by, and he feels like a pressure cooker. No worse than that. He feels like he’s going to shift any second, his claws are constantly pushing out, leaving his fingertips tingling and sore. His teeth ache with the need to elongate and rend and tear. His temper is shorter than it’s ever been; he’s constantly snapping, and then feeling guilty about it, sending himself into an ever-deepening shame spiral. His clients have been re-scheduling appointments and Laura is nearly ready to flay him alive.

“If you don’t get your shit together Derek, I swear to god I will send you home to stay with Peter until you can at least pretend to behave like a human being.” Laura’s gaze is steady and entirely human. She doesn’t allow her eyes to flare, ever; she has absolute perfect control. He hates her for it, which just adds to the self-hatred and guilt he’s drowning in. He hasn’t seen Laura shift in any manner since the Manhattan Alpha let them in. Derek hasn’t read the contract that allows them to stay in the city, but he’s pretty sure Laura’s Alpha status remaining hidden is part of it. “I don’t give a damn what you do to get yourself under control, but you do it before I see you again or I’m sending you away.”

The mere threat of being across the country from his Alpha -- all that’s left of his family -- makes his heart thunder with panic, his instincts scream at him. He closes his eyes to hide the flare of wolf and squeezes his hands into fists. There’s a bright, beautiful spark of pain when his claws dig into the fleshy part of his palm that centers him enough to grab hold of a thread of control. When he can open his eyes with the wolf hidden he meets Laura’s gaze with his own and nods. Laura leaves for her shift at the hospital, the door slamming behind her as an exclamation mark on their conversation.

He has to ask for help. 

The only thing he hates more than asking for help is how he feels right now.

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through the contacts until he reaches the D’s. He stares at the name on the screen for a lifetime before pressing call. 

Derek spends the night of his nineteenth birthday bound to a Saint Andrew’s cross in a dungeon in Brooklyn while a wolf he knows -- not a werewolf, a shape shifter -- works him over. It starts with the steady and rhythmic thud of a leather flogger to warm him up. Then the bright flare of two floggers made from monkshood vines working in concert. By the time Derek’s knees start to wobble, they have an audience. He can hear the steady beating of hearts all around him. He can almost taste the tang of pheromones in the air even though there’s a thick leather hood covering his head and buckled tightly around his throat. 

The blows land steadily over his shoulder blades, across his ass, stinging bites of pain along his thighs. He loses time, drifting away into the rhythm, riding the cresting wave as the sensation builds and builds. The blows fall faster, harder, closer together and Derek grunts, fisting his hands inside the large leather mittens covering them. He can hear their audience shifting and stirring in appreciation of the scene. The floggers eventually land on his sac, a one, two, three, four staccato that forces him to shift, buckling his knees and leaving him hanging by his arms.

His cock is hard enough to cane someone with.

Strong arms wrap around him, pulling him back to his feet. Hands as warm as Derek’s welted flesh trace over the marks and bruises that have yet to fade away. They won’t fade for days, if the last time they did this is anything to go by. Dyson releases the buckle at his throat, pulling the hood up far enough to allow Derek to drink. He holds a bottle of water to his mouth, feeding him a few small sips at a time until Derek turns away. 

“Ready for round two?” 

Derek nods. Derek hates scene negotiation. He much prefers to turn himself over and let the Dom have their way with him; he can survive just about anything but being cut in half after all. Humans are always impressed by how much he can take; the sadists especially love him. Dyson isn’t human any more than Derek is. His tools are made specifically for hurting people like them.

Tonight, the safe-word is disco. Dyson wants to hit, to scribe patterns into flesh, to see his work bloom to life in shades of purple, red, and pink. Derek needs to hurt because it’s the only way he can feel anything outside of his own emotional pain. They meet in the sex club because Dyson is an exhibitionist and because Derek doesn’t trust himself to agree to something he couldn’t hide from Laura.

Derek has three rules: Laura never finds out what he’s doing. Any type of water torture is off the table. No nicknames. Dyson has one rule: negotiate every time.

The hood drops down to his collar bone; Dyson cinches it even tighter than before. Derek leans his forehead against the padded cross, grateful that it isn’t over, that they’ve only just begun. Dyson fits a cock-ring around Derek, and then the paddling begins. After the paddling -- Derek likes the paddles, he does, it’s just that the dense thudding of the impact makes him horny, too, and he’s not exactly there to get off -- there will be caning. He hates (loves) that. It stings and burns and tears into his skin, bleeding out the pain with drops of crimson that stain his skin, clearing his head.

Then Dyson will take him to a private room, and that’s when the knives will come out and Derek’s mind will be clear and free. Once Derek is free from the muck and the mire inside his head, they’ll fuck until they’re both spent and wrung dry. In the morning they’ll clean up and go their separate ways. Derek may even feel like a normal person for a day or two before his head starts to spin again.

Derek shakes his head to clear it. Focusing on what’s to come will only make him miss what’s happening now. The first blow lands on his thighs. The second on his left calf. Occasionally Dyson will ask him how many strokes he’s taken. When Derek inevitably loses count, that is Dyson’s signal to turn him around, binding him to the cross with his bloody, welted skin against the leather and his unmarked front exposed to the cool air of the room. Dyson’s hands rub over him, warming his skin. He punches him occasionally, pinches him other times, mixing it up with caresses and barely-there claws scratching just deep enough to avoid drawing blood, for now. 

He hears a whistle-sharp sound and a brand of fire is laid across his chest. They’ve moved on to the canes. Derek genuinely smiles when he feels the first drops of his blood run down his chest. He’s safe, hidden behind the hood and mittens. He lets go of human form and surrenders to the all too brief sensation of being free.

~*~

Derek blinks awake. He flexes his wrists and ankles experimentally, feels the leather cuffs dig into abraded skin. He smiles. He rolls over onto his side, curling in behind Dyson their knees snug together as he buries his nose between Dyson’s shoulder blades. Dyson shifts a little, a hand reaches back to pat Derek on the hip. He dozes off again, when Derek wakes the second time he opens his eyes to see the line of tattoos snaking down the column of Dyson’s spine. He’s known since their first time together that Dyson had ink, but he’d never really thought about the logistics of how it was possible.

He traces his index finger over the sun at the top, then licks a stripe down the symbols all the way down to the crack of Dyson’s ass. “Greedy bitch.” Dyson rolls over onto his belly and spreads his legs. “Thought you got enough last night.” 

“Never.” Derek accepts the invitation, licking down until he reaches Dyson’s rim. He circles his tongue around the pucker until it relaxes and then he starts licking in. Derek loves to give head. Sucking cock, licking ass, eating pussy. Tasting the body as well as the pheromones, allowing the thudding of his partner’s heartbeat to drown out the world, narrowing his entire existence to the pleasure he can give his partner.

Nine times out of ten he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s only managed to perform cunnilingus once since … since _then_. It’s easier with men because the tastes and textures are different, but it’s still something he has to work up to. Tricking like he does, a different partner all the time, he never bothers to work up to it. It’s only on mornings like this, when he wakes up covered in marks, a wolf in the bed beside him, that he feels safe enough to allow himself the pleasure.

Dyson takes it so beautifully. Shamelessly arching his back and holding himself open for more. Derek obliges, shifting just enough to make his tongue go a little deeper. Dyson growls in appreciation. Derek sinks down into that space where there’s nothing outside of this moment, the next lick, the next gasp. He floats away to the safe space where he can just _be_. Eventually Dyson reaches back and grabs him by the hair, pulling him off long enough so Dyson can roll over. It’s too long without his mouth occupied and Derek whines helplessly.

“Shh, it’s okay, just changing it up a little.” His hand cards through Derek’s hair, nails digging into his scalp just enough to sting. “Open up and suck me down.”

Derek does. He relaxes his throat and sinks all the way down until blond curling hairs tickle his nose. It’s even better this way -- Dyson is so thick Derek can’t breathe around him -- he can only swallow and lick and drool until Dyson decides to _allow_ him to breathe. “That’s it, nice and slow. Gonna make this last all morning.”

The words register somewhere in the back of his mind as good. He whines a little and nods, caressing Dyson’s cock with his tongue. “Fuck, your mouth is perfect. Wish I could keep you like this all the time. You’d be good for me, wouldn’t you?” Dyson’s voice is low and deep the meaning of the words are beyond Derek. The voice though, the tone of the voice is warm and safe, kind and strict. Like the hand on his head holding him in place, keeping him still, setting him free from autonomy. This is what he was made for. Flavor bursts over his tongue and he swallows it greedily.

~*~

Derek likes Dyson for a lot of reasons, but the lack of bullshit chatter before and after a scene is probably his favorite. “I didn’t know people like us could get tattoos that would last.”

“You’ve got to know the right people, but it can be done.”

“Does it hurt?”

“For a while.”

Derek keeps his eyes on the floor. “Could it hurt longer?” It’s insulting to a Dom like Dyson to already be thinking about the next time, especially since Derek is still wearing Dyson’s marks all over his body, but Dyson is leaving the city soon and probably won’t be back.

“Duong can do just about anything. I’ll get you his number.” Derek nods. “I’m leaving next week, I won’t be back.”

A whine escapes him. Dyson steps in behind him, wrapping his arms around him. Derek leans back against him and tries to be good and strong. He has no idea what he’s going to do without Dyson. “An old friend of mine is coming to town for a while. I’m going to mention you to her. She’s like us, so she’ll have the right tools, she’s amazing; I learned everything I know from her.”

Derek stares at the ground. His heart is racing and the calm he bled for is starting to disappear. Could he let a woman do this to him? Even a wolf? Is it enough that it’s someone Dyson knows? 

“Derek,” Dyson waits until Derek looks at him. “Calm down and tell me why you’re freaking out.” 

Derek clenches his hands into fists and stares at the floor. Dyson turns him around then tilts his face up forcing Derek to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”

“Not a woman.” 

“Derek, I’m vouching her for.” Dyson’s heartbeat doesn’t stutter. “I know her, I trust her.”

“I--” Derek licks his lips. “I’ll try.” 

“Do not wait this long again before you ask for help.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“If you’re ever on the West coast, give me a call.”

 

Returning to the West coast is the biggest threat in Laura’s arsenal; he can’t begin to imagine a time he would ever return there. “Yes, sir.” And he will, except he’s never going back.


End file.
